


calling from beyond the grave (i just wanna say 'hi dad')

by Argella



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: idk what this is, introspection maybe?, spoilers for the Mercy ch of TWOW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 00:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argella/pseuds/Argella
Summary: Her parents who had been dead for some time now, along with nearly all of her brothers and likely her sister too. Her memories of them are frayed and tattered at the edge of her mind now. She’s tried to tell herself for so long now that it doesn’t matter what they would think of her and what she’s done; they’re dead and she’s not. But it does matter. Deep in Arya Stark’s heart.





	calling from beyond the grave (i just wanna say 'hi dad')

**Author's Note:**

> my brain: finish the practical magic au me: okay but what if i work on other drafts instead?
> 
> i honestly don't know what this is. i was Sad and listening to lots of lana del rey, especially "hope is a dangerous thing" and the line that i titled this after hit me with big "arya in braavos alone and sad" vibes and this has been sitting in my drafts for weeks now. this is like, not edited at all. i guess this is just me trying to explore her head space in book canon. sorry for the lack of gendrya. i know very few people will probably read this lol, but if you do, thank you!

The streets of Braavos are stifling and heavy with their usual briny smell as Mercy makes her way back toward the House of Black and White. Perhaps the weather would bother her, but Mercy is Braavosi, and used to the way the cloying air clings to the skin, especially around the ports so full of people. Maybe whoever she is tomorrow would be from somewhere else—Tyrosh, Pentos, Westeros even—and would be more affected by it.

But for now, she is Mercedene, at least until she is back with the Kindly Man and he tells her who she must be next.

Mercy is not known by the courtesans of Braavos—she is a mummer now, not a clam seller—and therefore does not make a point to pass the Happy Port, the House of Seven Lamps, or the Cattery. And when she happens to pass by those courtesans, perhaps ones that Cat of the Canals would have known, she shows no sense of recollection on her face when she meets their eyes. Mercy has always known to play her part.

Any other day and Mercy’s trip back to the House of Black and White may have been uninterrupted. Any other day she merely would have nodded her head in silent recognition to those who may have recognized her from the shows. But today, she had killed a man. Well, Mercy had killed him, but he was Arya Stark’s man to kill. And because she had killed him she needed to dispose of the body. So, on this day, seemingly no different than the rest, Mercy is later than usual, having had to roll Raff the Sweetling’s body into the canal after her performance.

By the time she has finished, splashing her hands with the salty water of the canal to clean off any blood, the sun is slowly making its decent beneath the skyline. Mercy knows the Bravos will be out soon, ready to challenge each other and unsuspecting nonnatives to duals. She picks her pace up a bit, knowing the Kindly Man keeps a close eye on her schedule. She trains her face, schooling it into hiding any hint of what she had done before the show. He had caught Arya Stark once before and taken her eyes for it.

Mercy is just a common young girl, a mummer. Arya Stark has been trained to be no one; to see and hear everything. She must always be watching, always be aware of her surroundings. 

But because she has killed a man, she is running late. And because she is running late, she is rushing. And because she is rushing, she isn’t paying as close attention to her surroundings as she should be and ends up nearly running into a man rounding a corner. She adopts a meek expression and mumbles an apology, scurrying around him. Her eyes are trained on the ground, only seeing the man’s trousers, when they pass each other.

But her eyes, distracted yet still sharp, catch on those trousers, noticing they’re distinctly Westerosi.

She shouldn’t turn like she does. She sees men from Westeros all of the time, docking in Braavos as they do. The man she had just killed, along with his companions, had been Westerosi, so it’s not like it has been awhile since she’s been around one. Still, the part of her that is still Arya Stark turns for one quick glance back at the man. For just one reminder of Arya Stark’s home.

What she sees startles her. The man’s hair is long and brown, like Arya Stark’s. His skin is the same color as her own was, a long time ago before her body had become acclimated to being outside all of the time, browning and freckling under the hot sun in Westeros and Braavos alike. His clothes are all distinctly Westerosi, as his pants had been. He carries a great sword at his hip, those clumsy things that she has learned the Braavosi look down upon. They train you slow in Westeros, not like the quick-footed water dancers of Braavos.

Taking it all in—the sword and the clothes and the hair—is almost to much for her. She—Mercy or No One or, possibly, even Arya Stark—feels her breath quicken. She’s reminded of a gentle smile and rough palms; kind eyes that mirrored her own. Stern lectures that soon flowed into soft words. Arya Stark’s father—her father. Ned Stark who had been kind and honorable. A good man and a good father. And they had killed him anyway.

She wonders what he would think of his daughter now. Of how she had run away, away to the Riverlands and then across the Narrow Sea. Away from what little family she had left and of what was left of her home. Would he think her a coward?

No, she tries to assure herself. He would want her safe. And Arya Stark was not safe in Westeros. They had taken Arya Stark, her name and her home and her family, and had given it to the Bolton’s and the Frey’s. Arya Stark was to be married; a captive in her own home. No, he would want to know that she was far from all of that.

But would he want her here, in Braavos? Ned Stark had always encouraged his daughter’s imagination, but he always made a point to talk her down from anything he deemed too unimaginable. He had let her learn to use a sword, true, but he also had plans for her to marry; to become the lady of a castle. No, he would not want her in Braavos either. Would not want to know what she has done to stay alive. But would a father not prefer his daughter to be alive and a killer than to be dead? She knows she would.

Still, she feels deep shame at that. Ned Stark would find no honor in killing men and women for money, like the Faceless Men do. They can worship their god all they want; she’s learned they’re being paid for it all the same.

She barely feels the shoulder that catches on her own as someone rushes past her on the cobbled streets, nor the apology that’s thrown her way in Braavosi. Her eyes are not here but have turned to Westeros. To Winterfell. Her home, the one she had grown up in, run in, lived in with her four brothers and her sister and her parents.

Her parents who had been dead for some time now, along with nearly all of her brothers and likely her sister too. Her memories of them are frayed and tattered at the edge of her mind now. She’s tried to tell herself for so long now that it doesn’t matter what they would think of her and what she’s done; they’re dead and she’s not. But it does matter. Deep in Arya Stark’s heart.

She hears the last calls from the clam sellers in the streets and wipes her hand angrily at Mercy’s gentle eyes. She straightens up and turns from the speck of the man in the distance and continues on her journey. It would not do well for Arya Stark to be late tonight. She has one last part to play.

**Author's Note:**

> i didnt mean to end this as if arya is about to go off on the house of black and white but it kind of seems like she is??  
anyway, back to my regularly scheduled gendrya bs. 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at ladystvrk


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